Caught in the crossfire(part two of 'The Something Wicked' series
by smaugholmeswatson
Summary: In 'Keeping my Promise' Moriarty had John Watson in his sights but after his failure has decided to go after someone else that Sherlock holds dear. Moriarty is back and has Mycroft in his sights. Will Sherlock be able to save him?
1. Chapter 1

**Throughout the text there are references to my previous story "Keeping my Promise" which I would recommend you read first.**

The Diogenes Club in London has never been known for having a vibrant, bustling atmosphere. Instead it was a place prized for its tradition of complete silence which has been maintained since the club was first opened. Because of the rigid upholding of this tradition the early Monday morning patrons were rather surprised when a gun-shot shattered the peace and quiet, echoing through the enclosed space. Several of the men clutched at their chests and glanced round for the source of the noise.

It wasn't hard to work out where the shot had come from. You only had to look in the direction of the newcomer in the dove grey Westwood suit to work out the answer with the still smoking gun clutched in his right hand being a bit of a give away for even those who weren't gifted with the mental ability of Sherlock Holmes. The man grinned madly round at those present, making those who weren't checking their pulses flinch and suddenly find themselves fascinated in the furniture directly around them while the men charged with upholding the tradition of silence cowered against the wall trying to make themselves as small as possible. This was one noisemaker they didn't dare ask to leave.

The man however took notice of them and stood there examining the neat hole he'd made in the ceiling with a faintly bemused expression on his face. In his experience such outbursts of violence usually got him what he wanted. Surely they didn't care about their tradition of silence so much that they would die rather than break it? With a sigh the man turned from the hole and faced the patron, an old man with snowy white hair, nearest him.

Where is he?" demanded the man in a voice that weas dangerously soft and promised great pain to anyone who didn't provide an answer. "Where is Mycroft Holmes?"

The gentleman in the chair simply stared at him, his eyes widening with fear when the man in the suit levelled the gun at his chest. "In there." he whispered in a barely audible voice as he pointed at the same time towards a door cleverly disguised to look like it was a part of the wall.

The man in the suit lowered the gun and took a step forward. "Sorry." he said. "I didn't quite catch that."

The gentleman closed his eyes. "He's in there." He answered in a voice barely above a whisper, feeling only a little guilty for ratting out Mycroft.

The man gave a mocking bow. "Thank-you. That wasn't too hard was it?" He said as he walked towards the door, his feet hardly making a sound on the thick carpet. Just before he reached the door he glanced back over his shoulder. "By the way, feel free to call the police when you hear a gun-shot." He said, a smirk audible in his lilting voice. He didn't pause to savour the exclamations of shock or revel in the fact that he had managed what the sound of gun being fired hadn't; he had broken the silence of the exclusive Diogenes Club. The man entered the concealed door and allowed it to swing shut behind him, cutting him off from the white staring faces of the patrons.

The room beyond the door was plain with very little furniture but the person who usually frequented the room didn't mind, he rather enjoyed the simplicity and how it let him forget about the outside world for a while. The only sound in the room was the faint rustling of paper as Mycroft Holmes turned over another page of his newspaper, currently unaware of the danger he was in. He had heard the door open but assumed it was either his little brother or John Watson with some annoying problem they had stumbled across in their lastest case. The man cleared his throat and with an irritable sigh Mycroft land his paper to one side, folding it neatly, before looking up the room's other occupant. His eyes widened in suprise when he saw who was standing there.

"Moriarty." He said, inwardly cursing himself for being unable to keep the audible shake from his voice. "What are you doing here?"

Moriarty smirked. He could see that Mycroft was trying very hard not to look scared and licked his lips in anticipation. He was going to enjoy this. Slowly Moriarty advanced towards the armchair Mycroft was sitting in. "Long time no see Mycroft Holmes." He said, absentmindedly passing the gun from hand to hand.

Trying to remain calm Mycroft crossed his arms and tried to look as though situation like this happened to him every day. "I suppose I should have realised you would return at some point. After you you can't resist breaking a promise can you?" He said, remembering the original deal he had offered the consulting criminal that he would help him fake his death well enough to fool Sherlock in return for him leaving London and never returning. Of course Moriarty hadn't stayed away for long and had kidnapped John, almost killing him and Sherlock on the roof of Saint Bart's hospital. Apparently he had returned for another try.

Moriarty snorted loudly and began to pace around the room. "What promise? All you did was tell me to stay away from London. Its not exactly a binding contract is it?" He asked, his voice sly. It was true, Moriarty had given his word but in his experience such a thing was easily broken.

Taking a number of deep breaths Mycroft massaged his forehead with his fingertips. He could feel a headache coming on. "I suppose not." He paused and took a sip of tea from the cup beside him before continuing. "Let me guess...you have returned for another attempt at killing my brother and John Watson. Watch out Moriarty or you'll become predictable." He half exprected the self proclaimed consulting criminal to start gloating of his plan and was surprised when he threw back his head and laughed. "What's so funny?" He demanded, a confused frown on his face.

Moriarty stopped pacing and faced him, bending down so they were level. "Oh Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft!" He cried, throwing his arms around the eldest Holmes brother and giving him a hug. Mycroft stiffened, only relaxing when he pulled away. "I do believe your skills of observation and deduction are becoming stale with misuse, you really should use them more often." He shrugged, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "Why must it always be Sherly I try to kill?" He asked, sounding a little hurt. He raised the gun and aimed it towards Mycroft's heart.

For the second time since Moriarty had entered the room Mycroft's eyes widened, though this time in fear rather than surprise. In the split second before Moriarty pulled a trigger he knew without a doubt that he was about to die.

"No hard feelings though right?" Moriarty asked with a laugh before he pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gun going off was deafening and echoed loudly in the tiny, bare room. The bullet when it struck Mycroft was like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath from his body and jerking him backward. He gasped when an intense, overpowering pain radiated out from his shoulder, causing black spots to dance in his vision. Already his shirt around the bullet hole was soaked with blood with more continuing to pulse with every second that passed. He already felt dizzy and knew the bullet had most likely nicked a major artery.

Moriarty didn't bother to stop and admire his handiwork due to the fact he had things he needed to be getting on with. From the other side of the concealed door he heard shocked cries and terrified shouts. A slight smile crept onto his face. It wouldn't be long before Lestrade and Sherly turned up to investigate. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. My,my what a mess they would find. Quickly, knowing he didn't have much time, Moriarty stuffed the gun in his pocket and reached into Mycroft's pocket for his phone, quickly tapping out a message. Then he put the phone back in Mycroft's pocket and walked away through the door and the waiting patrons who simply watched him go past, not daring to lift a hand to stop him. Behind him he left the prone form of Mycroft Holmes, blood pumping steadily from his wound and spraying the floor and walls around him. Moriarty's work here was done.


	2. Chapter 2

I am drinking a cup of tea, milkless due to Sherlock forgetting it was his turn to buy some, when my phone chirps loudly from where it sits on the kitchen worktop. I wince and glance over at Sherlock who glares at me before returning back to his microscope.

"Would you put that thing on silent?" He snaps, readjusting the slide he is examining. "It's ruining my concentration."

I roll my eyes at his back and stretch over the equipment littering the table to pick up my phone. A small flashing light announces that I have a text and I press a button to illuminate the screen. To my surpise the text is from Mycroft.

_"Diogenes Club. Come and play. Mycroft is dying" - JM _

'This can't be right can it?' I think as I stare down at the eight little words on the screen. Surely it is nothing but a sick joke? My eyes are drawn back to the two letters the person has used to sign the message and for a moment I am standing again on the rooftop of St Barts pointing a gun at Moriarty who has Sherlock is a strangle hold. I shake my head and push the image roughly from my head, it is not something I particulary want to relive at this precise moment. I read the text again to make sure I have not made a mistake. No, that is definatly what it says.

"Jesus." I breathe, running a hand through my hair and looking in Sherlock direction. He is still absorbed in his work. "Jesus." I repeat softly before raising my voice. "Sherlock you have to read this text."

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh. "What is it now? I suppose it's Lestrade wanting us to solve another tedious case he thinks will occupy my time." He crosses his arms. "Tell him that if he wants me at another press conference that I am very busy."

"Sherlock, stop being so ridiculous, press conferences are part of solving a case." I say, my voice audibly shaking. Obviously noticing it Sherlock looks at me cloesly, his brows furrowed. "Anyway the text isn't from Lestrade it's from Moriarty."

Sherlock's chair lets out a pained shriek as he shoots to his feet and hurries around the table towards me. He holds out his hand for the phone and I give it to him, watching his blue eyes as they scroll across the typed words. Silently he drops the phone and is halfway to the door before I realise what he is doing. I go after him, not even needing to ask where we are going and simply following Sherlock when he rushes down the stairs and hails a taxi driving past. I jump in after him and settle myself opposite. Sherlock is twitchy, a far cry from his usual controlled emotional state. The last time I saw emotion from him was when Moriarty tried to kill me.

Our journey through London passes in complete silence with Sherlock staring blankly at the buildings sliding by in a blur of concrete and glass. I can understand how he is feeling despite how I don't particulary like Mycroft very much after the amount of times he has dragged me to random locations around the city for a friendly chat about his brother. At one point during the journey I reach over and gently touch Sherlock's hand. I expect him to pull away and am highly surprised when he wraps his fingers around me and holds on tightly. Evidently he is extremerly worried about his brother being in Moriarty's clutches.

Eventually the taxi trundles around a corner and comes to a slow stop outside the Diogenes Club in the midst of three police cars and an ambulance, none of them overly promising sights. Even before the taxi comes to a complete halt Sherlock has jumped out, striding purposefully towards the door of the Diogenes Club. I notice a number of the policemen look at me with sympathy and dread clutches at my heart. Hastily I throw a twenty to the driver, "Keep the change", and run after Sherlock, wanting to be by his side when he finds his brother. I barely even glance at the guards as I duck under the police tape and enter the building. The scene that greets me is one of chaos with officers milling everywhere questioning the club's patrons and Anderson simply standing in the centre of all the activity looking confused. I found myself unable to get my head around the fact the place wasn't silent as it had been the two times I'd been dragged there to meet Mycroft.

Sherlock is no where to be seen but I figure he's hidden by the amount of people present and don't particularly worry about him. I do however spot Lestrade and he waves, making his way through the crowd until he stands before me. I watch his face for a sign about what has happened but all I can see is a deep sadness.

"What happened here? How is Mycroft?" I ask, half hoping Lestrade will be able to point me to him sitting somewhere enjoying a cup of tea. Instead Lestrade's eyes took on an haunted look and a shiver runs down my spine with the realisation that something terrible has happened to Mycroft.

Looking uncomfortable Lestrade clears his throat and lays a hand on my shoulder. "A man dressed in a grey suit broke in this morning and shot Mycroft. From their description it sounds..."

I cut him off. "It was Moriarty. He sent me a text." I say before glancing round more frantically. Sherlock is still no where in sight and after hearing that Mycroft is injured I suddenly feel worried about him. "Where's Sherlock? Have you seen him?"

Lestrade sighs heavily and points to a small door set in the wall. "I saw him go in there. I have to warn you John it isn't pretty." His eyes implore me to understand and I nod to show that I do.

"Thanks." I say. He inclines his head and steps back. Aware that all of the officers present in the room are watching me I walk into the room and duck through the door into the concealed room where I'd often met with Mycroft. I can well understand Lestrade's haunted expression when my gaze falls on Mycroft who is sprawled in his armchair like a morbid art exhibit. The front of his shirt is red with blood and is vivid compared to the deathly paleness of Mycroft's face. Apart from the faintest fluttering of his chest I could have been forgiven for thinking him already dead. Beside him, clutching tightly to one of his hands is Sherlock. He doesn't even notice when I stand beside his shoulder.

"Sherlock." I say softly as I bend down beside him. It is hard for me to see my friend looking so lost and broken and before I can really think about what I am doing I stretch out to comfort him.

Sherlock shifts slightly but doesn't pull away. I took this to mean that he needs me and I lay a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock slowly raises his face to mine. "Please John, help him." He pleads.

I already know there is nothing I can do for him but still, for Sherlock, I lean forward and carefully push Mycroft's shirt away from the wound. I wince. The wound is a bad one with the bullet having torn a gaping, bloody wound in his chest and nicking the major artery coming from the heart. Blood continuously pumps from the wound, despite someones attempt to stem it. I shake my head. It is a miracle that Mycroft hasn't bled out already. As I go to lay two fingers on his neck to check his pulse Mycroft stirs and coughs, frothy blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock?" He gasps, his eyes blurry and struggling to focus.

The smallest of smiles creeps onto Sherlock's face. "No need to sound so surprised Brother. You must have realised I'd come as soon as I heard what happened." He leans forward, a slight frown on his face. "I shall make Moriarty pay for this." He spits, an angry tear running down his cheek.

Weakly, despite causing him obvious pain Mycroft reaches forward to wipe the tear away before gripping his other hand tightly. "Please don't go after him Sherlock, you'll only get yourself killed. Promise me you won't." He demands, voice intense.

Sherlock rests his forehead against Mycroft. I see the tension in his shoulders and know how hard this promise will be to keep. "I promise Mycroft." He glances towards me. "Get a stetcher in here. My brother needs to go to a hospital."

"Sherlock, I don't think..."

He spins round and glares at me. "Stetcher now." He says, cutting me off mid sentence.

Mycroft groans loudly. Instantly Sherlock's attention is fixed back on him. "It's too late." Mycroft whispers, his eyes fluttering shut. Sherlock shakes his head, not wanting to believe what he was hearing. "Listen to me, I am sorry we've been fighting each other for so many years. I wish I had been a better brother to you." He breathes in deeply, a definite rattle audible in his voice. "A long time ago I lied to you Sherlock, caring is an advantage... its what makes us human." Then he gasps, his eyes close and his hands go limp.

"Mycroft?... Brother?" Sherlock stutters in a quiet voice, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He looks up at him. "John?" He wails.

I wrap an arm around his shoulder and lean his head against my chest. "I'm so sorry Sherlock, he's gone."

Sherlock collapses into noisy sobs that are loud enough to make several policemen come running to see what is causing the commotion. They freeze when they see Mycroft's prone form and several of them remove their hats. I ignore them, concentrating all my attention on Sherlock who I have never seen this emotional before. I have to admit that it does un-nerve me a little. "Sssh it's okay Sherlock, lets get you home." I say softly. There is no resistance as I gently pull him to his feet and lead him from the room. Lestrade hurries forward when he sees us but slows down when he sees the state Sherlock is in.

"Its over." I say in answer to his questioning look.

Lestrade runs his hand through his hair. "Damn it." He swears, glancing towards Sherlock with concern.

"Don't worry Mycroft made me promise not to go after Moriarty." I say to reassure him.

Lestrade sighs. "Tell Sherlock I am sorry once he's calmed down. And text me if you need any help stopping him doing anything stupid."

I smile gratefully. He knows all too well how an overemotional can be. I lead Sherlock away from the club into the back of a taxi that an officer has waiting for us. "221B Baker Street please" I say before returning my attention back to Sherlock.

One thing was certain; life was never going to be the same and I had the feeling that wouldn't be the last we saw of Moriarty.


End file.
